


Icy Cages Surround Us

by OUATLovr



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Drama, Gen, Hurt Francis, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Bash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7759057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATLovr/pseuds/OUATLovr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bash wasn't here now. Although Francis was not sure where he himself was, was not sure of anything in that moment, he knew that his brother had been lost to him for quite some time. The world was blue, and dark, and he was alone." </p><p>Bash and Francis go in search of the Darkness, and encounter a bit more than they are prepared for. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Francis I

When Francis was a little boy, Bash was all the father he needed. Sebastian wasn't much older than him, but, at the time, he had always seemed it.

Their own father, the king, paid very little interest to Francis, more concerned with his bastard son and his mistress, or with the running of his country, but Francis had never really thought that odd at his age.

He thought that, Bash being the age he was, and capable of doing things with Papa, of course Papa would prefer his company. Francis was simply too young. He would be old enough, when he grew to be Bash's age.

Besides, Bash was always there to make it up to him.

He taught Francis how to ride and to track and fight with a sword _after_ the King taught Bash. Oh, there were tutors, more than capable of teaching the craft, but Francis learned best from Bash.

It was only when he was older that he realized that he must have done something wrong from birth for his Papa to pay him such indifference when he so clearly loved Bash more.

It was when Francis was eleven years old that he realized it was not his fault at all, but rather, the fact that he had been born of the Queen, rather than the King's Mistress, that caused his father to prefer his older son so.

But Bash was there to comfort him, then, when he discovered the truth. As he was always there for Francis.

Bash wasn't here now.

Although Francis was not sure where he himself was, was not sure of anything in that moment, he knew that his brother had been lost to him for quite some time.

The world was blue, and dark, and he was alone.

Some small part of him knew that he would die down here, though his mind could not tell him where, exactly, he was.

The world was too small. The air too thick, and it enveloped him, forced itself down his throat, caused his eyes to redden and his lungs to burn excruciatingly.

There was no noise down here but the rushing in his ears.

Only terrible, damning silence.

That, and the cold, cold that filtered through every inch of him and caused him to shiver uncontrollably, coughing down more air that only suffocated him.

The world above was a hazy mess, but he thought that, through that mess, he could see the outline of a hand, pressed against the sky. Perhaps it was God, attempting to reach down through the cracks of heaven and rescue him.

No, that wasn't right. The sky was not this white, even in winter, and the air not this harsh.

And just like that, the disorientation vanished, replaced with a dull realization that he would rather not have.

Water, not air. He was breathing in water.

Ice. Water. He had fallen into the river after the tracks they were following had vanished.

Bash was above him somewhere, but the ice was too thick...He would never find Francis in time...

If indeed, after everything that had come between them, he even wanted to.

Several terrified gasps racked Francis' frame.

Water flooded his burning lungs.

The current of the river dragged him down, into the depths, and for one, terrified moment, he knew that Bash would never find him. That he would die down here, pulled away by an unseeable force.

Francis tried to cry out, but realized belatedly that this did not help, either. Reaching up towards the sky, towards the hand above, he slammed against the thick ice desperately. In a last effort to break through to the surface.

He thought he could hear the garbled, far-away sound of his brother's voice, but it was difficult to distinguish from the roaring in his ears, growing ever louder.

And then...

A sword slammed through the thick ice, just behind Francis, narrowly missing his shoulderblades. He swallowed, swimming hastily away, or as quickly as he could in his state, but not too far as to be caught in the current again.

The world tilted again, strong arms lifting him into frigid air, and his eyes slid shut on their own accord. He could hear someone calling his name, slapping him in an attempt to get a response, but all Francis wanted was to sleep, to get away from the cold surrounding him for just a few minutes...


	2. BASH I

They were half brothers, Francis had told him in a fit of anger not so long ago. It was the first time Francis had ever said it, and it hurt more than Bash had thought it would. Had thought it should.

In truth, Bash wasn't sure Francis had ever even made the distinction until Bash had taken Mary from him. He wasn't certain when he himself had, and that frightened him almost as much as the sight of his brother falling through the ice.

And suddenly he felt very numb, as a memory very similar to this rushed to the forefront of his mind, before his legs could move to help his brother.

When they were both young, Mary away at the convent and everything alright between the two of them, Bash and Francis were almost inseparable.

Bash wasn't certain when that had changed, but always found amusement in the fact that it irked Catherine to no end, and made Diane smile, for she knew that Bash's continued existence when his brother became King would depend on Francis' love for him.

Of course she wanted that love to flourish.

It was during his eleventh summer that this first became a problem.

Bash had insisted on going hunting with a boy from the kitchens. He was the King's Bastard, and so he was allowed these special privileges, without having to worry about the palace guard following him and chasing off his prey. And the boy he took with him was a quiet one, so he needn't worry about him scaring the animals in the woods.

He hadn't known his brother was following him until it was too late.

They stopped at a little inland lake, Bash insisting that they have a nice swim to cool off after hours in the woods, and the serving boy too frightened of upsetting the king's favorite son to admit that he didn't know how to swim, apparently.

They stayed near the shore, so that the serving boy didn't run the risk of drowning, and it was not until they were just about to climb out, skin puckered and cool, that Bash heard the scream.

His little brother was quite a bit shorter than he, at the time, despite the closeness in their ages. He had tried to follow Bash into the deeper edge of the lake, despite not knowing how to swim, and just managed to scream before going under at the last minute.

The serving boy let out a cry, neither having seen who the child was who had fallen into the water, and then Bash was moving, faster than he'd had occasion to do so before, because some small part of him, some part that he didn't truly wish to acknowledge, knew exactly who had fallen in. Exactly who had followed them to this particular lake.

He managed to pull Francis out of the water after some searching, too long, Francis' heavy clothes weighing down on him, looking every inch a drenched rat, and pulled him to the safety of the beach.

The serving boy was terrified, blubbering that the Queen would have his head because of what happened. Bash didn't blame him; some part of him acknowledged that she would probably have his, as well.

He didn't know, back then, that he should have woken Francis up and forced him to cough the water from his lungs. Whenever Francis or even Bash was sick before, they were told to sleep it off and take medicine, and so the sight of his half-brother, unconscious after his ordeal, didn't disturb him as much as it should have.

They didn't have horses, and had been forced to drag Francis back to the palace between the two of them. After quite some time in the woods, it had concerned Bash that Francis wouldn't wake at all, especially after the third time Bash accidentally dropped him. But still he wouldn't wake up, no matter how many times Bash cried and begged him to.

When they finally made it back to the palace, the serving boy ran ahead to find the King and Queen. They were frantic, having realized Francis was gone some time ago but unable to find him on the grounds; his usual hiding place.

And when Bash finally did walk into the palace through the front door, escorted by armed guards but refusing to relinquish his brother to their hold, after spending half a day dragging Francis through the woods, they barely looked at him before the Queen swept Francis into her own arms and called for the Court Physician.

He would live, Bash knew, despite the water filling his lungs.

But then the King's attentions turned to him, the one who had allowed the Dauphin to nearly drown in the lack in the first place.

The King had slapped him, the first time in Bash's life, and confined him to the dungeons for the rest of the day.

Bash had been terrified in those grimy, dark cells, but he learned a harsh lesson that day; though he might have been the King's favorite son, Francis was and would always be his heir, and therefore was the more important of the two.

He had been released when Francis finally woke, and, to this day, did not think his brother knew of the harshness of that lesson. Hoped that he never would.

Now, the sight of his brother, falling beneath the ice, made something freeze inisde of Bash, and, for a moment, he could only stand and stare even as Francis' scream ripped through the silent afternoon.

It reminded him so much of that day, though now the circumstances were even worse, for, where Francis had run the risk of having his lungs filled then, he now chanced succumbing to the cold before they could reach the warmth of the castle.

For a single moment, all the anger between them, the jealousy over Mary, and even the fact that Francis had sent guards to kill Bash, disappeared. All he could think about was the fact that he might have just killed his own brother by bringing him on this quest.

That was certainly what they would think back at the castle, when he returned. That he had lured the Dauphin out here with this intention all along, as petty revenge for stealing back Mary.

Even Mary would not be able to save him from the chopping block.

Then he was moving, running, and while he told himself that it was because he wanted to save his own skin, that if Francis died, he would, too, that this was depth of his brother's own affections for him these days, he knew that wasn't the case.

Because despite everything between them now, Francis was still his little brother.

"Francis!" he cried out, slamming into the ice near where the blond had gone under, hands already reaching blindly for his sword.

Some wicked part of him screamed that it was too late, that he would never find Francis now, but he shoved the voice aside, slamming his sword into the too thick ice.

"Francis!" he shouted again, and then, horribly, he could hear the sound of his brother's muffled screaming, buried under that thick foot of ice between them.

Behind him, the guard moved forward, shouting out, "My lord," and Bash wasn't certain whether he was referring to himself or to Francis.

"Stay back," he snapped. "The ice is too thin."

The guard stopped, looking rather put out, but Bash didn't have the time to deal with all of the guards who now hated him because he had killed some of their own.

"Hold on!" he murmured, more for his own benefit than Francis', for it was rather doubtful that, in his current state, Francis could hear him at all.

Then he was reaching for his sword, yanking it from its sheath and burying it to the hilt in the ice separating them. The ice cracked, but, by the time he had managed to push aside the snow in a better attempt at seeing his brother, Francis was swept away.

The current. There was a current underneath this river, pulling Francis downstream.

Jumping to his feet, Bash ran downstream as far as he dared go. He dropped to his knees once more, brushing aside the snow and slamming the sword into the ice once more. It broke, water lapping against his gloved hands.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of a scuffle, and wondered whether the rest of the guards had returned upon hearing all the commotion, but didn't dare turn around. Didn't dare take his eyes off Francis.

All he need do was wait, wait for Francis to appear.

It did not take long.

Within moments, Francis was there, body spinning past the hole Bash had made, and he just managed to drag his little brother to freedom before he could be swept away once again.

Bash pulled Francis into his arms, choking down his horror at the sight of his blue-tinged skin and soaked skin. But what terrified him the most was that his brother did not open his eyes.

He gave his brother's cheek a little slap, in an attempt to wake him and was hardly surprised when this did nothing but elicit a small moan.

He was glad, though, when Francis opened his mouth, and gently turned his brother on his side, watching as the water erupted from his bruised lungs and emptied onto the ice.

Still, Francis did not wake, only let out another moan and fell limp against Bash.

The man standing guard on the shoreline did not come forward to help him, and he wondered at that, because even if the King's Guard resented the King's bastard they were here for the King's son.

But he didn't dare let this take his attentions away from his little brother for long, for he feared that, should he do so, he might never have the chance to look at him alive again.

Francis had been beneath the ice far too long for comfort. Even longer, this time, than he had been that fateful summer, and the ice certainly leant an even more dangerous addition to Francis' condition.

"Francis," Bash whispered down at the unconscious body of his brother, even as he attempted to stand with Francis in his arms. He knew they needed to make it back to the shoreline, and quickly. The ice had already proven itself untrustworthy.

Unthinking, he stripped off his outer coat, now rather wet from fishing his brother out of the water, but certainly not as wet as Francis' own clothing, and wrapped it tightly around him in an attempt to keep him warm.

"Francis," he whispered again, desperately trying to wake him. Although Francis shivered from the cold, he did not respond.

Francis, of course, did not respond to Bash's pleas.

His little brother was heavy, a deadweight in his arms, weighed down also by the water still filling him, but he managed to stumble forward with him in his arms and not drop him once.

Perhaps this sudden strength was found because he was terrified that Francis might not even make it back to the palace before succumbing to the cold. At this point, it was a very real threat, even with their horses travelling as fast as they could.

He was just about to run back to the shoreline, throw Francis on a horse, and ride it hard back to the palace when the smell hit him, and a horrible premonition made him turn searchingly toward the beach. The smell was one of death.

He was not a fool, and the lack of King's guard standing by the shoreline raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He could see the dark blood staining the snow even from here.

The fact that he had not even heard a skirmish, or had, but not loud enough to indicate such violence, on the shoreline whilst he had his back turned made his heart clench.

He didn't give himself time to wonder why whomever had attacked Francis' guards and the horses, had not also attacked him and Francis. They had certainly been vulnerable enough.

Cringing and wishing that he still had a hand free to shield his nose from the stench, Bash forced himself to run forward, Francis' limp body slapping against his chest with each footfall, to see what had happened.

He already thought he had a terrible suspicion. A whisper in his mind, one that he didn't wish to hear.

His horse lay slaughtered, insides erupting into the snow, throat slit. He saw it first, and forced himself not to react. The horse, a lovely mare, had been a gift from his father on his last name day, and he adored the creature. But that didn't matter.

Not until Francis was safe, out of the cold, and they were safe from whoever had attacked. Francis' horse lay gutted as well, and it stained the snow surrounding them a dull pink.

The sole guard who had remained with them while the rest checked the woods was in much the same condition, wide blue eyes, unseeing, staring up at the sun.

He had not even screamed when he was killed, and now Bash realized why; a thick rope had been placed between his teeth as a gag. Whomever had killed him and snuck up from behind, and had no honor in doing so.

Bash had no doubt that the rest of their guards had encountered the same fate, deeper in the woods.

He let out a curse, glancing down at Francis once more.

This certainly complicated matters, made what he could do for Francis in his current state a bit more difficult.

He had no doubt that this carnage was the handiwork of the Darkness, or, at the very least, pagans from the woods.

"Up, up, Francis," he hissed down at his little brother, even if he knew the younger man would not be able to hear him. "Come on, I need you to wake up now."

Francis stubbornly refused.

The castle was not far, by horseback. They had made it out here in a mere hour's time, and they had not been hurrying for, though Francis understood that this was a bad situation, Bash knew that he had been in no hurry to fight an enemy by his half-brother's side.

Bash had seen the look Francis gave him earlier, the look that had prompted Mary to remind him that this Darkness was the true enemy, not Bash.

He did not think Francis was entirely convinced.

Nor was he certain that, were their situations reversed, Francis would have fished him out of the river just now, when he had so recently sent his guards to kill him.

And that, far more than the knowledge that his half-brother could very well die from exposure out here, terrified him.

Walking back, however, carrying Francis through knee-deep snow, would not be easy, nor would it be anywhere near as quick as by horseback. They would be forced to find shelter before long, if he wished for Francis to live, and Bash knew of no close villages.

And if they remained out here for long, especially given Francis' current condition, well...Bash did not want to think about what would happen.

He did not want to think about how, twenty-four hours earlier, he was sure that Francis had probably tried to have him killed, and now, Bash might just be the cause of his brother's death.

Given, of course, that the Darkness did not find them and finish them off first.


	3. Bash II

It was a miracle that he found the little cabin, though Bash did not believe in such things. Curses, he understood were real, but miracles? He had yet to encounter proof that any existed, despite his mother's belief that they did.

A spiral of smoke drifted out from the rooftop, disguising itself in the thick pines, and Bash breathed a sigh of relief, for it meant that someone, at least, was home, and, once he got Francis inside, his brother would be warm and safe.

He glanced down at Francis then, still more than concerned by the fact that Francis had not yet awoken, and knowing that, whatever meager supplies the owner of this cabin had, he would do much better before a roaring fire in the palace, wrapped in warm clothes and drinking one of Catherine's signature brews.

Not that he would ever wish for anyone else to drink one of Catherine's brews. Such drinks were only safe for Francis, and her other sons. Anyone with a brain knew that, even Henry.

Bash had spent many years refusing her drinks when offered, on principle alone.

It was, of course, worrying that the cabin lay in the middle of a wood half the common folk refused to enter, that Bash himself, despite his father's religion, feared, but he couldn't think about that now.

It was far closer than the nearest village. Indeed, he didn't even know where the nearest village was, and this convenient little cabin would have to do, for now. Possibly until the King's Guard rode out to find them, or until Francis was better, so long as these people had a horse.

Whichever was first.

He had found the bodies of the rest of their guards not far from the river, these strung up in the trees by their feet, leaving no doubt that they were, in fact, the victims of pagans. Their uniforms had been stripped and thrown into the snow not far away, their weapons missing.

And it terrified him that, even if he had been preoccupied with saving Francis, he had not heard them being dragged away and murdered.

Though he wondered how a bunch of half-starved peasants had the ability to take down three armed palace guards, Bash continued on without looking back. A part of him protested at the thought of leaving them, the part that demanded he cut them down and give them a proper burial. But then Francis moaned in his arms again, and he was moving, faster than before.

Then he found the cabin, nestled in a small alcove in the woods, and, in any other circumstances, he would have stopped and found the little home suspicious. Instead, he stumbled on, whispering words of assurance to Francis, though he doubted his brother could hear him.

As he neared, he realized that this little cabin was in a sorry state indeed, far worse than he had originally thought. Though someone was indeed inside, for not only did the smoke attest to that, but he could hear the sounds of life within, the little hut looked as though it might collapse at any moment. The thatched roof was sunken in, bits of straw and mortar strewn in the snow around the hut. The front door was splintered and burnt in a few places, and the open windows were filled with carpet, so that intruders could not see inside, rather than glass.

Bash kicked at the splintered door with his boot, not wanting to let go of Francis for a moment.

Instantly, the noise from inside died.

"Open in the name of the King!" he shouted desperately, hoping he sounded convincing to whomever it was scurrying about inside.

And, in a moment, the door had burst open, a young peasant woman, dressed in warm fox furs, staring up at him with wide, fearful eyes. Her greasy hair was plastered to her head, and she wore a pair of cooking mittens, but no shoes, despite the cold.

A cat pranced forward from inside the cabin, placing itself almost protectively between her legs, and letting out a low hiss when it noticed Bash.

"Oh my..." the woman began, looking from Bash's terrified, blue face down into Francis', and no doubt noticing the water dripping off of them both. "What happened?"

Bash pushed past her, not caring how rude he seemed, only wishing to get inside her home, where it was warm. "He fell into the river," he said without ceremony, casting about for some place to put Francis where he would be more comfortable than in Bash's soaking, shaking arms.

"Dear me," the woman, a girl really, said, and then, "put him by the fireplace to stay warm, and I shall grab some of my husband's furs from the bed."

Bash gave her a nod of thanks, only too eager to comply.

The home was small, even for a peasant's cabin, but certainly welcoming. He saw just two other rooms, branching off from this one, a bed covered in furs in the one and the sweet aroma of soup that hit his nose the moment the girl shut the door behind them wafting in from the other.

The room they were in contained only a simple, far too small fireplace, and a table surrounded by two wooden chairs. There were no windows, which certainly made the cabin warmer, but no other furniture, either. Not even decorations.

Francis let out a low moan as Bash set him down on the dirt floor next to the fireplace, but did not wake. His hands shook, whether from cold or fear for his brother, as he released Francis, and the woman clucked her tongue in sympathy, stepping toward Francis.

Bash stiffened, although the reasonable part of him told him that she was only trying to help. But he could not help but think of the men, strewn up in the trees, and that this was the first home he had happened upon since.

She lifted Francis' eyelids, squinting down into his eyes despite the harsh light before letting out a grunt. "Well, he is not concussed," she said finally, pulling away. "If he wakes, he should make it through the night, but I think that we should check him hourly anyway, to be sure."

"Do you have a horse?" Bash demanded, pretending her words did not terrify him. If he was not concussed, then surely Bash could take him back to the palace. Not that a walk through the woods, jostled about in Bash's arms, might not have hurt him, but still. _If he wakes..._

She did not answer, leaving the room, presumably to go and gather the furs. He stared after her, worry clouding his gaze for only a moment before returning his attention to Francis.

The girl returned, caryring a pile of warm-looking furs and looking rather reluctant to give them up. "My husband is out hunting, and has taken our only mule."

Bash grabbed one from her arms, moving to place it under Francis' head, when the girl interrupted, "Hadn't we better take off his wet rags and wrap him in the furs?" she demanded, and Bash almost snorted at the thought of a peasant girl calling Francis' clothing "rags."

It vaguely occurred to him that he was going into shock.

Instead, he nodded in thanks, realizing that this thought should have occured to him, and moved to strip off his brother's robes. The girl set to work at his boots, and, moments later, Francis was wrapped only in the warm furs, as close to the fire as possible without being singed by it. Bash tossed his clothes into the corner, and the woman let out an annoyed sigh, moving over to them and laying them out to dry.

"He has very fine boots," Myria said suddenly, running her fingers along the ruined leather, and Bash only swallowed in response.

"Perhaps you should get out of those wet clothes as well," she said finally, sending Bash a dubious look. "My husband is near your size, perhaps..." and then she was rushing off again, and Bash's face burned as he stripped out of his outer clothes and waited for her to come back.

When she did, carrying a fur coat that would have made Bash cringe in other circumstances, head turned so that she could not see him...indisposed, he smiled gratefully and took it from her, slipping into it.

"You came in the name of the King, then? But what are you doing out here, so far from the castle?"

Bash shrugged, needing a moment to get his story right. It wasn't that the girl had given him any reason to distrust her, but he knew he ought to be careful, even out here.

When the girl realized he wasn't going to be forthcoming, something about her expression shifted, and she stood awkwardly to her feet. He thought for a moment that she was going to kick him out, but she only stood silently, staring at the door.

Bash sank down beside Francis then, closing his eyes, and, for a brief moment, letting his exhaustion overtake him.

The girl tut-tutted. "I was just making stew," she said suddenly, still sounding reluctant, but obviously frightened to refuse anything to those acting in the name of the king.

He had a feeling that, should she know exactly who they were, she would be even more frightened, and a part of him didn't want that. He had already invaded her home; there was no need to make her fear the King's retribution.

"Perhaps some will help him wake up," she offered softly, still sounding rather put out by this.

Bash smiled gratefully. "Thank you...?"

"Myria," she introduced herself, giving him a short curtsey that had obviously never been practiced before, and rushed off to the kitchens.

Bash turned his attentions back to his brother. It worried him that Francis still wasn't waking up, even here, in the warmth. Worried him further that his brother wasn't giving a response of any kind, and that they had no way of sending word to the castle for help.

"That must have been a long walk, from the river? And you say you were from the castle?" Myria asked, obviously fishing for information now, and Bash swallowed hard.

How much to tell? He knew that the majority of the French common folk were pagans, though this was hardly a known fact, and, if he admitted that he and Francis were royalty, or even that they had been tracking down the Darkness...He no longer knew if their titles of royalty would protect them.

"Yes, but our horses ran off while we had stopped for a rest," Bash said carefully. "Something spooked them, and my...brother fell in the river."

It felt so good to call Francis his brother, knowing that she would simply believe him, would not cast judgment on him for being the bastard son, as everyone else did.

Everyone but Francis, until a month ago when he'd seem that change too in his brother's eyes.

"What was your brother doing on the ice?" she asked, and he gave her a searching look, wondering whether she wished to know this for mere curiosity's sake or whether she already suspected the truth.

"I...We got into a bit of an argument, and he stormed off," Bash said sadly, glancing down at his brother's shivering form and attempting to wrap the furs more firmly around him, practically cocooning him.

"It is fortunate you were able to fish him out," Myria responded. "There was a fight in our village last winter, and one of the men fell into the river. The other did not feel the need to get him out and he frozet to death."

Bash flinched at the description. "But you are near a village?" he asked suddenly, hope filling him.

Only to be crushed a moment later, when the girl shook her head. "My husband and I decided to leave that place, for the solitude the mountains offer. I...we were not welcomed there."

There was a story behind this, he knew, but he did not bother to ask. She was letting him keep his secrets; he should do what was only right and let her keep her own.

Though with every passing word, he was beginning to understand why she and her husband were unwelcome in their village.

Francis let out a low moan, the first sound Bash had heard from him in some time, and Bash could not help his breath of relief at the sound. He rushed forward, kneeling beside his brother and shaking him gently.

"Francis?" he demanded, hating the desperation in his own voice.

Francis let out another groan, face turning toward Bash's outstretched hand, but he did not wake.

"Dammit, Francis," Bash whispered as he noticed then the way the younger man was shivering. He moved him closer to the fire, though this didn't seem to help, and rearranged the furs until Francis was practically cocooned.

For a moment, he considered curling up beside his brother, but then realized that he was probably not the face Francis wanted to wake up to now, nor would his own wet attire help keep Francis warm.

Myria returned from the kitchens then, letting out a low hum at the sight of Francis before rushing forward, a steaming bowl sitting invitingly in her hands.

She shoved the bowl toward Bash, and he was a bit dismayed to find that, rather a spoon, the bowl held a piece of stale bread, but he struggled not to show it.

Warm broth was warm broth, after all.

"Thank you," he said, and, despite his dismay, he was sincere.

She gave him a shy smile and sank down into one of the two wooden chairs, watching as Bash attempted to maneuver broth onto the piece of bread and bring it to Francis' blue lips. His hand shook, and he lifted the other to steady it at Francis' lips.

"What are your names?" she asked then, and Bash colored a bit when he realized he still hadn't introduced himself.

"I am...Bash," he said slowly, for, though she seemed a kind sort and would probably be more willing to help if she knew who they really were, he was reluctant to tell her, alone in the woods and without the knowledge that anyone might be coming for them. "And this is my brother...Francis."

He could only hope that the name was common enough to not bring them under suspicion. After all, plenty of families named their male children after the young Dauphin.

Myria nodded. "Well," she said, and then stood, rather awkwardly, and wiped her hands on her furs, "My husband should be home soon enough, and then we can add some meat to that stew."

Bash smiled wanly. "That would be marvelous."

"When my husband returns, I am sure he will not be averse to letting you borrow our mule, to go and fetch some help for your brother. I am sure you have family who are worried."

And Bash thought immediately of Mary, the only one who knew where they had gone besides the now dead guards, and felt a pang in his chest, even as he answered, "I...can't leave my brother. Not with him like this."

Myria sighed, though she did not look surprised by the words. "Well then, when your brother wakes up, I am sure my husband would not be averse to letting you borrow our mule, in the name of the King."

He did not say that a mule would be very unlikely to do the both of them much help, only gave her a forced smile, once again.

"The broth is probably getting quite cool," Myria said, and he jumped a little, turning back to it.

As hungry as he was, he attended to Francis first, as he always had, pressing the now soggy bread against his brother's rapidly warming lips; now a dull pinkish-white rather than the blue they had been upon leaving the frozen river.

He supposed that was something to be grateful for, even if Francis would not wake.

Francis did not take to the broth, in his unconscious state; refusing to swallow as Bash brought the liquid to his lips, though his lips smacked at the liquid on Bash's fingers.

"That's it, Francis," Bash coaxed, dipping the bit of stale bread in the broth once again and returning it to his lips. "That's it."

Myria returned to the kitchens, humming a tune that Bash was disturbed to find he recognized; Diane had sung it often enough to him when he was a child.

The woman's cat perched on a log by the fire and stared at Francis with the same intensity that Bash did, and something about those squinting green eyes made Bash nervous. He wished Francis would wake up to tell him that it was merely superstition.

He wished Francis would wake up.

The cat hissed at him as he reached out to stroke its brown fur, and Bash quickly moved back, glowering at the little creature.

"Oh, don't mind him," Myria spoke from the kitchen, "he's just not used to strangers, is all."

"Yes, I can see that," Bash muttered under his breath.

The door suddenly banged open behind them, making Myria jump and Bash reach for his sword, which lay with the rest of his wet clothes. Then she let out a sigh of...not relief, exactly, but no longer looked quite so fearful as she had.

"Raoul, darling," she said, by way of greeting. "You're back." The kind smile she had directed at Bash and Francis only a moment before vanished from her face almost immediately as she faced her husband, and Bash wondered at that.

"Who are you?" the man demanded gruffly, ignoring her altogether and glaring at his guests, a large hunk of skinned meat thrust over one shoulder. Bash found himself not wanting to let go of his sword. The man let out a low growl, and Bash slowly lifted his hands to the level of his head, to prove that he wasn't a threat.

The man was holding a bow and arrows, after all. And out of the two of them, the woodsman would certainly be able to strike first.

"My name is Bash," he said, softly, not wanting Francis to finally awake to this, "and your...wife was kind enough to offer my brother and I help after he fell into the river. Just until my brother wakes."

The man eyed him suspiciously for a moment, and then his eyes drifted to Francis and softened, if only for a moment.

"Raoul," Myria said dumbly, but didn't walk forward to greet him. "These men came here in good faith, looking for some warmth. The younger one fell in the river. I've promised them your mule, to return home, once the boy awakens and is safe for the journey."

Bash couldn't help but notice that she did not once mention the words that had convinced her to help them. That she did not mention that they were from the palace, and that she had promised them all this only after Bash had claimed they were there in the name of the King.

And when he recognized the pendant around the woodsman's neck, a rabbit's foot, skinned and molded into some sort of charm, he knew why. Pagans, who held no love for the Catholic monarchy, though they would never outright deny the King's son, or so he hoped.

At least, Myria would never outright deny someone in the name of the King. Bash was not quite so sure about her husband, who was still eying them with suspicious distaste, looking very much as though he would like to send his arrows through them both.

The man grunted, eying Bash, and then Francis. "Fine," he muttered, though he sounded anything but, and slinging his findings onto the table with a loud bang that made Myria jump and Francis moan in his sleep. "But we want no trouble."

Bash dipped his head. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Raoul eyed him dubiously. "And you'll be gone the moment the boy wakes."

"Of course."


	4. Francis II

Francis woke with a painful gasp, body shivering from the cold, a warm hand pressed against his forehead, gentle and clearly belonging to a woman.

He smiled at the touch, leaning into it and letting a single word escape from his lips, " _Mary_."

There were several other voices after that first, inquisitive and sharp, but he focused only on Mary's hand, on the feel of it against his cheek, and eventually blocked them out.

Sleep claimed him once more, and the feel of Mary's hand against his cheek was gone the moment it came.

He awoke later to the same hand against his forehead, with perhaps a little more lucidity than the last time, though he could not be certain of how much time had passed, given that he hadn't bothered to figure out when he'd fallen asleep the first time.

He moaned into Mary's touch, wondering why her hand felt so coarse and hot above him, but not much caring. The rest of his body was freezing, and leaned into the touch as much as he was able without actually lifting his head to follow it.

The hand jerked away then, a woman's shrill voice that was definitely not Mary's, echoing through his ears and making him cringe, and then he could hear Bash, as if from a great distance, calling out, "Francis? Francis, can you hear me?"

Francis frowned at the sound of his brother's voice, forcing his sticky eyes open. For what could Bash possibly be doing in their chambers at this hour of the morning-

He jerked awake, the warm hand from before now rather cool, and was suddenly, horrifically aware of the fact that he was not in his chambers with Mary.

That was when the first stirrings of pain hit him, and he cried out as his chest constricted and spots appeared on his closed eyelids.

"Shh, Francis, it's all right," Bash's voice hissed in his ear, suddenly far closer than it had been a moment ago, and too fast. Francis blinked. He could feel Bash's calloused fingers running over the fringe at his forehead, and leaned into his brother's touch, letting his eyes fall closed once more.

Bash let out a low sigh, and it was then that Francis realized he wasn't lying in his bed at all, for the bed beneath him rose and fell at the sound, and, after a silent moment of concentration, Francis realized he was lying in his brother's arms.

For some reason, this news did not comfort him, though he felt that it should have.

He flushed, eyes flying open, only to make contact with a thatched ceiling that was by no means his bedchamber.

He sighed, wondering how he had injured himself this time, to end up in Nostradamus' chambers.

"You're safe, Francis, it's all right," Bash's litany continued, although it wasn't quite as soothing now that he remembered the events of the last few days.

The events of the last few weeks.

He moaned, letting his head fall back down against Bash's chest, and wondered if he could perhaps sleep and forget that this had ever happened. He was so comfortable here, so unaware, and perhaps, if he just closed his eyes...

"No, Francis, you have to stay awake for me," Bash said, shaking him a little, but gently, Francis was surprised to find.

He groaned, swatted his hand toward the sound of Bash's voice, but even this did not seem to deter his brother.

"Francis, you're hurt. You have to stay awake now." It sounded as if he'd been saying this for a while.

As if from far away, he could hear himself muttering, "Fine," through clenched teeth, and Bash let out another sigh of relief that Francis couldn't understand. Couldn't understand who his brother, who weeks ago had conspired to take his throne from him, who had played on Mary's fears to steal all that was his birthright, now acted like he cared about Francis.

Some part of him knew that this assessment was unfair. That Bash had only been doing what he thought was right, and wanted Francis' throne no more than he wanted Francis' birthright.

But he had wanted Mary, since the beginning, and so Francis felt rather justified in his anger toward his brother, slightly unreasonable though it might have been.

And then, even quieter, so close that Francis could feel Bash's breath against his ear, "We're safe, but you mustn't let them know who we are." And he heard the underlying importance in those words: who _you_ are.

He wanted to ask why, who they were with, what the hell was going on, but Francis only swallowed thickly before nodding. He knew that tone; had heard it only a few times in his life from his brother, but recognized it nonetheless.

And he knew better than to argue with it.

Before he was given the chance to ask anything else, however, something warm and wet was pressed against his lips, and Francis hesitated only a moment before letting it enter his mouth, to realize that it was sweet, warm broth. He gagged at the feel of it on his tongue, at the feel of anything on his rather numb tongue, and received another gentle shake for his trouble.

The shake, for some reason, reminded him of the fact that he was so cold he could hardly feel his toes, and Francis started shivering again, the warm broth hardly seeming warm enough in that moment.

"Come on, Francis, just a bit more," Bash said softly, tilting his head up, and Francis forced himself to listen, forced himself to open his eyes once again.

A woman stood before him, a peasant by the looks of her, but with soft skin and gentle hands, as she held the bowl of broth up to his lips and whispered, "That's it, boy. Just a bit more and perhaps you might be able to hold down some with actual meat in it."

Well, he certainly wasn't averse to that idea.

The woman continued in her gentle ministrations, Bash's hand still running through his hair and making Francis feel only a little nervous, sleep-fogged brain still too tired to make sense of what was going on around him. He only knew that this woman was safe, Bash would have ensured that, and her cooking, meatless though it was, was certainly sublime.

But she wasn't Mary. Mary was safe, back at the castle, where he should be now, would be if he hadn't been fool enough to let his brother lure him out here.

But there was something about her demeanor, something kind and heartfelt, that reminded him quite a bit of Mary, and so he did not ask questions until the stew bowl was pulled away from him, far too soon for his liking.

The woman stood, looking him over shortly before blushing and hurrying out of the room, perhaps into the kitchen of this little hut, and Francis realized then that he wore no clothes.

He felt his cheeks color, as Bash reached behind him and pulled another fur over him, seeming to anticipate what he wanted before Francis could even articulate the words.

"Do you remember what happened?" Bash asked as he tucked the fur in around Francis' chin.

Francis nodded, wincing when the movement hurt his throat and head. He could remember all too clearly, being trapped beneath that ice, water clogging his lungs and knowing that he might not make it until Bash rescued him. And then everything had gone dark.

"You're still recovering, but Myria - that's the woman - says you should be fine, other than a bit sore from all that happened, and a few bruises from when you fell in." Bash sounded almost nervous. "I found her cabin after I pulled you out. Someone slaughtered our men and the horses, and I didn't think you'd make it back to the castle without a bit of warmth."

"The Darkness?" Francis asked lowly, blearily. Bash's words barely registered. His men, and their horses, had been slaughtered. Bash had thought he was going to die before they made it back to the castle on foot...His head hurt merely from the thought of all of it, and he wondered if there wasn't more to the fact that his head was pounding so.

Bash didn't answer for a long time. "I...don't know," he said finally, softly. "The way the men were...I don't know."

Francis just nodded once more, closing his eyes and letting out a soft sigh as his head fell back against Bash's chest once again.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that this wasn't a bad situation. That he was really back at the castle, and that Bash hadn't killed his guards and come back to haunt Mary and himself, that this was only another escapade from their younger years.

The feeling didn't last, however. His worry over what was happening back at the castle, now that his mother had no doubt heard of his and Bash's disappearance, still remained at the forefront of his mind.

The woman returned then, holding a bowl of warm water which she began to apply liberally to his forehead with a ratty piece of cloth, bending over him in an almost motherly fashion, and Francis found himself closing his eyes, practically mewling under her ministrations.

Bash was holding his hand.

Francis' eyes opened then, instantly focusing on his left hand, clutched so tightly in his brother's that the circulation was beginning to leave his entire hand below his wrist. As though Bash were...worried. Scared, about what might have happened to him.

Because he'd nearly drowned, and Bash had almost not made it to him in time.

"How are you feeling?" Bash finally asked, eyes filled with a concern that Francis didn't want to...couldn't deal with just then.

His hand carded comfortingly through Francis' hair, and Francis focused on that only. If he just pretended that the last few months had not happened, then this didn't seem so unnatural. So terrifying, for how close to death had he come for Bash to look so concerned?

Francis shrugged, and found that even this small movement was...not painful, but certainly not comfortable. "Lucky to be alive," he whispered, throat hoarse and scratchy.

The woman frowned, pulling back abruptly. Instantly, he missed her touch. "I'll make you some tea for that," she murmured, before disappearing into the kitchen once more.

Francis stared after her, but before he could ask whether or not this tea would have something in it for the pain, another voice broke through his thoughts.

"You'll be on your way in the morning then, now that's he's woken up," it was gruff, a voice just out of Francis' line of sight, and for a moment it reminded him of Nostradamus, but that made little sense in Francis' mind.

Bash stiffened, hand stilling in Francis' fringe, and Francis found himself regretting the loss as Bash suddenly pulled away, standing and leaving Francis to fall back against less warm furs. Though he would have never admitted it aloud.

"We wouldn't want to take advantage of your hospitality," Bash said, voice strained, and Francis knew instantly that something was wrong. He tried to sit up, only to have Bash push him back down, gently but firmly, with a look that he didn't dare question.

"Good," the man grunted, and then his gaze softened on Francis. "Are you in pain?"

Francis gulped, frankly surprised by the man's sudden change in demeanor. "I...will be all right," he finally managed, chest aching with each word.

The peasant nodded shortly. "Myria," he shouted toward the kitchen, "I'll just be tending to the damn mule."

And the woman's voice, softer even than it had been with Francis, returned, "Of course, Raoul. Would you like some broth, before you go?"

The man, Raoul, cast a fervid glare in Francis and Bash's direction. "When I come back in."

"Of course," she repeated herself, and then the man was gone, slamming the door to the little hut behind him with a loud bang that made Francis' headache nearly intolerable.

Bash turned his attentions back to his brother. "Can you...do you think you can sit up?"

Francis blinked. "I...yes," he said finally, though it came out more like, " _yuh_ ," and he attempted do as Bash had said.

It was a valiant effort, Bash tried to console him, when he fell boneless back down once more, pain flaring through his body, too weak to take much notice of it other than the vague recollection that he hurt.

Bash turned to the woman as she moved back into the room, a small clay mug in her hands. "He can't travel like this," he said, his voice almost pleading, and Francis forced his eyes open at the sound.

Myria pursed her lips, silent for some time, and sleep had almost reclaimed Francis before she spoke again.

"I shall speak with my husband," she said finally, voice intoning her exasperation, handing Bash the mug at the same time. Whatever was in it smelled delicious, and steamed the little home. "See if you can't stay until morning."

Ah, tea. Francis remembered her saying something about tea earlier...

Bash nodded shortly. "Thank you." And then he was turning back to Francis, eyes so full of that awful concern, and it was all Francis could do not to look away. "You should drink this."

He held the cup out to Francis, and then seemed to think better of it, pulling Francis up into a sitting position once more -Francis felt like a doll on strings- and holding the cup to his lips.

The Dauphin swallowed convulsively, the hot tea burning down his throat.

It was not so fine as the tea he was used to, tasting of bitter herbs and little else, but he managed to get most of it down before Bash pulled it away, muttering something about too much upsetting his stomach. And then Bash was staring intently at him, as if searching him for any signs of pain now that he was awake.

Francis grimaced, looking down at his hands. Bash's words the other day, that Francis had sent his soldiers to kill him, were still prevalent in his mind, and he wasn't sure he could reconcile that look of concern with the animosity the two had held each other in ever since this whole incident started.

Myria's husband burst into the house then, before Francis could think up an answer to that question, his face sweaty and eyes glazed with something akin to deliriousness. His gaze swept first to Myria, sitting calmly beside her cat, and then to Bash and Francis, and Francis didn't fail to notice, yet again, the way Bash stiffened at the sight of him.

"You can no longer stay here," Raoul announced to the two brothers, glancing over his shoulder worriedly as if something were about to leap out and attack him. "You must leave immediately."

Bash and Francis exchanged glances, Bash's full of suspicion and worry, and Francis', he feared, more full of pain at the very thought of getting up again.

"Dear," Myria began, standing and giving her husband an almost condescending smile, "Surely you won't force these two men from our home before they're able. I do not think the injured one should even be moved until morn-"

"They leave tonight," her husband cut her off, glaring, but no longer at her.

It was then that Francis realized how afraid Raoul was.

He sighed. More pagan superstition, then. No doubt linked to the "Darkness," that they had been searching for, before Francis fell in.

Despite the hand he'd found on that frozen lake, Francis remained unconvinced that this, "Darkness," was anything more than a man, parading around and terrifying the people of the woods. He was resolved to go to his grave believing it, for it was the only logical explanation.

After all, even Nostradamus had admitted that the tooth they found...in Olivia, and Francis shuddered just thinking of it, had belonged to a man, not some beast from Hell.

Even if Bash didn't seem to believe that, still.

Yet Francis was almost as eager as Bash to catch this man now, and find out what exactly was going on, what exactly this man was up to.

That thought led him inevitably back to what had occurred at the lake, and Francis found himself wondering, now that he was lucid enough to do so, at everything Bash had told him. He remembered seeing the hand, falling into the lake, being pulled out as everything went dark, but he couldn't help but wonder at what Bash had told him about the men. That they, and the horses, had been slaughtered. And he couldn't help but remember Bash's accusation, that Francis had sent his guards to kill him, even after he'd won everything.

Francis glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He had sensed no lie from Bash when he told Francis about the men, but then, he had been partially delirious at the time.

Still, what did Bash have to gain from killing off their guards and then _saving_ Francis? Unless Bash was completely mad, there was no more logical reason for doing so than the Darkness would have had for slaughtering their men and then _leaving Bash and Francis alive_ , when he had the perfect opportunity to kill them.

So why hadn't he?

That question was almost more disturbing.


	5. Francis III

Francis groaned as Bash pulled him to his feet, inwardly reflecting that he had not been in such pain since that tourney with Spain where he had taken a lance to the gut, but this time, he could hardly say why that was. He had no visible injuries, save for a few dark bruises along his ribs and chest.

The woman of the little cabin, Myria, assured him that it was perfectly normal to feel such pain in his ribs in the days after a near-drowning incident, though how she might have known this, she didn't elaborate.

She didn't seem to have time to, what with her husband wanting them out of the house as quickly as possible, at which Francs couldn't help but wonder, if he knew who they really were, how much more quickly he might have wanted them gone.

Bash promised that the couple would be reimbursed for their troubles, at which point Raoul had simply snorted and left the house, to ready the mule for them.

Francis shuffled forward on awkward feet, leaning heavily on Bash as they made their way to the door. And then he froze, for, where Bash was looking down at Francis' feet, seeming to have discerned that there was something more wrong with them than a bit of soreness, Francis was staring up. At the doorway.

He was so distracted by the sight that greeted him, Francis barely noticed the blast of cold air that hit him as he stepped outside, sending his body once again into uncontrollable shivers.

When he was about eight years old, Francis remembered travelling to a peasant village with his mother. He remembered very little of the event itself in the beginning, only the end, which had stuck with him all of this time.

It had been a holy day, and it was expected of the wealthy members of France, even the nobility, to give alms to the poor. Catherine de Medici was the richest woman in France, and she seemed to almost enjoy giving to the poor when she was expected to, as if showing that she needn't worry about losing that money, even as she funded France's treasury.

The King had not been with them at the time. Diane had been with child, a child which did not survive beyond conception, and the King had been doting over her with equal relish as he had Catherine when Francis and each of his siblings were born. Some of the few times Francis could remember his mother and father acting like a happy married couple.

Catherine had not seemed to mind, pleased that Francis was coming with her this year, and Francis was secretly hoping to sneak away from her once they reached the village, for a bit of exploring.

He had not been able to.

The poor of the village were very happy to receive his mother's alms, and to dote over the young Dauphin of France and the Queen, and Francis had barely had a moment to escape his mother's side, surrounded by peasants who wanted to touch his hair and his fine clothes.

He remembered being quite terrified by the whole thing, not liking how close everyone was, or that the people kept pulling at his hair and clothes as if they would gain some blessing for doing so.

And then it had happened, just as the ceremony began, and a priest intoned scriptures that Francis wasn't really listening to.

The dead, rotting creature had been thrown down, on the ground between the priest and the villagers, and suddenly his mother's guards were rushing forward, putting themselves between it and the two members of the royal family. The villagers started screaming, running out of the way, crossing themselves and glancing worriedly from the Queen's guards to the dead animal, as if trying to decide which they feared most.

In the end, it was the dead animal, the stench of its rotting corpse filling the whole village, blood staining the ground around it.

Francis had not really understood what it meant at the time, only that it was bad, and that his mother was scared by the sight of it, glancing into the woods behind the village fearfully and clutching Francis' hand until he was sure he would never have feeling in it again. Their guards had barely managed to get the Queen and her son back to the royal carriage before the villagers began rioting, and the King had been livid, cracking down on the village with a vengeance at the very thought of his royal heir being harmed by pagans.

He didn't know what the word 'pagan,' meant at the time, either, only that it was always spat with some great level of disgust and anger, and that the bloody corpse had been a message to the pagans. When he asked, his mother simply told him that it was a sign of hate from those who followed the Old ways, to those who had converted, and that he mustn't think anymore on it.

He hadn't, for they hadn't caused much turmoil after his father's angry strike against them until the deer head that hung in Mary's chambers made him think of that time again.

The sight of the bloody foot, bloated and blue, attached to the outside of the doorframe made all of these thoughts return suddenly, and Francis felt rather sick, looking at it. A stray thought struck him, that perhaps this foot belonged to the same poor soul that the hand on the frozen lake had, and he felt abruptly sick.

It had been nailed there, and yet Francis had not heard a sound like pounding after Raoul had left the house, and, by the look of it, neither had Bash.

Bash looked up then, wondering why Francis had stopped, and froze. Then he was shuffling Francis forward even more quickly than before, until Francis thought that he would be sick from that alone, until they were out of the house and standing in the snow next to the paddock where that mule was kept.

Francis, glancing back toward the doorway, despite his instincts screaming at him not to, wondered why Bash hadn't taken it down. He might have, if he didn't feel so weak he didn't think he could move without help.

Raoul stood brooding over the mule as Bash carefully helped Francis out the door and to it. He seemed to not even see it, and Francis wondered suddenly if this was the reason they were being so speedily ejected from the little cabin.

The mule was an ugly little creature, old and withered, and for a moment Francis paused, wondering how on earth this animal was supposed to conduct them back to the castle in one piece, and how that would be better than walking, before Bash's concerned hand on his arm had him moving once more.

He winced as Bash helped him up onto the mule, but not from the dull ache in his bones at the sudden movement, of being lifted into the air.

Francis realized, for the first time, that there was only one mule. And from the look of things, the way Bash grabbed the reins and started pulling the little creature through the snowy forest, Bash didn't plan on riding it with him.

He glanced down a the little mule. She was an old creature, mouth surrounded by tufts of white hair and body splintering enough merely from the weight of Francis, and he doubted she'd be able to carry them both with ease.

Raoul glared at the two of them until Bash spurred the little creature forward, once again thanking the man for his hospitality, though now with a much shakier voice, just as unnerved by the sight nailed to the doorway as the rest of them.

Then they were off, and Francis had not thought he would be so relieved to leave the warm house.

They travelled for some time, or rather, Bash travelled while Francis rode along behind in almost guilty silence, until the moon was high enough in the sky to be seen through the dark canopy of tree tops above, glistening down on the snow beneath. There were no stars to be seen beside it, only cold darkness, and something about the sight made Francis shiver and pull his robes more tightly around him, not wanting to look up again.

Myria had sent the brothers on their journey with a jug full of broth and some dried pieces of meat, looking rather reluctant to give them up and at the same time fussing over Francis, as she had been doing since he woke and likely, he privately thought, before as well. These hung off the side of the mule's thatched saddle, and Francis stared at them with a strange feeling of detachment for a few minutes before Bash's voice pulled him from his musings.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," Francis gritted out, and then, looking up to notice the genuine worry on his brother's face, he sighed. "I will be. Just...tired." And it was true. Despite the amount of sleep he was sure he had gotten in the peasant couple's home, he still felt a weariness that had nothing to do with need for sleep washing through him, down to the bone.

And every time he had closed his eyes since waking, Francis had seen only water. He would not find rest tonight, he knew.

Bash nodded sympathetically. "At this pace, I assume we'll be back to the palace around mid morning tomorrow," he muttered, and Francis couldn't withhold a sigh at the information.

"Perhaps I could walk for a while, and you could ride and get some sleep," Francis suggested, the only idea he could come up with which would deter Bash and he from more uncomfortable conversation.

Bash snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Francis." And that was an end to that idea.

He thought perhaps he dozed; he wasn't sure, but when he woke again, the sky, or what little of it could still be seen through the trees, was black as pitch, just as it had been before.

Francis let out a sigh, leaning down and resting his head on the mule's neck tiredly, wondering if perhaps he could fall asleep, if he could trust Bash enough to be asleep around him.

Then again, he had already been asleep around Bash, in that cabin, and before that, alone, while Bash dragged him to safety, and so Francis had a feeling that he might just survive the experience.

He closed his eyes again, marveling at how soft the mule's hair was when it seemed such a ragged, ugly little creature, and then-

The world beneath him vanished, and Francis found himself falling precariously into the cold, wet snow.

From far away, he could hear Bash calling his name, but Francis could hardly make sense of why. The cold snow was closing in all around him, and for one horrible moment, Francis thought that perhaps he should simply sink into it, give in. He was already half-frozen, after all.

And then strong arms were pulling him up, dusting the snow off his coat as though it were no hardship, and Francis almost fell into them, feeling suddenly dizzy and very, very tired.

He blinked up at Bash, in, it must be said, some surprise, before turning his attentions to the reason for his discomfort: the mule lay on its side in the snow beside the place where Francis had fallen, and Francis had been rather fortunate not to have been crushed beneath it in the fall, for it would have been all the more difficult for Bash to get him up on his feet again, he supposed.

The mule was very much dead, no doubt having succumbed to the exhaustion of carrying a rider, when it had never done so before.

Bash held Francis up with a strong grip, squeezing off the blood in his lower arm, but Francis could hardly bring himself to wince, leaning against his brother's shoulders and wondering if this would feel safe, had he still trusted Bash.

"Well, one bad omen after another," Bash said with surprising cheer. Francis shot him a glare, and the look slowly subsided into a frown. "We should get moving. Before..." he glanced eerily back in the direction they had came, but he needn't have elaborated.

Francis understood what he didn't say well enough. They had (accidentally, of course, but since when did pagans ever believe something to be an accident?) killed an animal in the woods, an animal that had certainly belonged to superstitious folk, if not pagans themselves.

Blood for blood.

He glanced down at the dead mule, and suddenly his regret over its death was not entirely because of the facts that he was surely too exhausted to walk back to the castle in his current state, nor that the poor animal had fallen on its neck because it could not support Francis' weight.


	6. Bash III

"Did you ever really believe Nostradamus' prophecy, or were you just looking to steal Mary?" Francis demanded presently, and Bash could hardly withhold a sigh at the accusation in his brother's voice, despite the tired wheezing with which it was spoken.

He'd known this was coming, that this question was coming, had observed it on the tip of Francis' lips ever since he'd returned to Court, hours away from the marriage, the consummation that still left Bash sick to his stomach, as he envisioned his brother with the woman he'd convinced himself he loved.

He just hadn't thought he'd be answering this particular question in the middle of the forest, far away from the safety of the palace and with Francis too weak to walk very far on his own. Hell, the younger man shouldn't even be trying to talk, considering the way he was panting so heavily, shivering, and leaning against a tree every few steps for support.

Bash had a feeling he knew why Francis was leaning on trees in lieu of him, and let out a long sigh.

They'd had to abandon the horse where it was, despite the bad omen Bash knew this to be and the feeling of worry that had followed him since. He knew how the pagans felt about the dead, especially about dead animals. They would not be safe until he'd gotten Francis back to the warmth of the castle.

Bash swallowed and turned to meet his little brother's gaze head on. "I may have had feelings for Mary, but I would never have come between the two of you if I didn't think it would save your life." And if he sounded a bit snappish, Bash thought with annoyance, well, Francis deserved it for thinking so lowly of him lately.

For sending guards to assassinate him.

Francis glared, though the heat of it was a bit tempered by his condition. "And why don't I believe you?"

Bash sighed, turning away once more. "Believe what you will, Francis." He wanted to tell himself that he didn't care, anymore, after Francis had tried to kill him, but he knew deep down that this wasn't true, and that he did.

He kept walking, ears focusing on the sounds of Francis' labored breaths as he trudged along behind him.

He wasn't expecting the hand that clapped down on his shoulder, too hard to be done in kindness, especially wasn't expecting it to seem so strong, but, if truth be told, he knew that they had both been waiting for this moment for some time now, and he was sure Francis had been waiting for it even longer than he.

He spun, pushing Francis backward before he could think of what he was doing, and his brother fell to the ground, his arm on Bash's pulling him down on top of Francis. They tumbled through the air for a moment, before Bash felt the distinct wetness of snow bleeding through his clothes.

Francis let out a cry of pain as they went down, and Bash flinched, remembering that his brother was still quite sore and weak, and that, if they had to come to blows, they should do so when Francis could at least stand on his own two feet for more than a few minutes.

But he hadn't started this, after all, and if Francis was strong enough to be angry, he was strong enough to tire himself out fighting.

"Why would you believe the damn prophecy?" Francis demanded, a vein on his neck bulging in irritation, and just perhaps, a bit of confusion, as well. "I know why my mother does - she believes everything that comes out of Nostradamus' mouth, and she never liked Mary, but I'd have thought that you, at least, had a bit more common sense!"

But he didn't give Bash a chance to answer before he was on Bash again, twisting them around so that they were both scuffling for leverage against the wet snow, throwing in as many hits and scratches as they could manage.

Bash tried to stay conscious of his resolve not to harm Bash, but didn't think he was doing a very good job of that, not when Francis was moving with surprising agility, and he didn't exactly want to be injured himself.

And then, impossibly, Francis had Bash pinned against a tree, one fist raised while the other pinned Bash's arms to his sides. The air knocked out of him as his back slammed against the tree, and he winced, knowing that would leave bruises in the morning.

Providing, of course, that they'd made it out of this forest alive by that time.

"My mother was raised in the Old Religion," Bash gasped out, still a little stunned that Francis had managed to disarm him so easily after nearly drowning. He must have been feeling better than he'd let on.

Francis paused, fist still raised to strike, but shaking slightly from the excursion, and Bash thought he could have kept that a secret, should have, for Francis wouldn't have had the strength to deal a harsh blow.

Still, he wasn't in the mood to head back to the castle with any more injuries, for either of them, and there was something almost freeing about finally admitting this to Francis, even if his brother was mad at him.

He wasn't Catherine, though, Bash knew that. Francis' anger flared quick and high, as their father's did; he wouldn't use something like this against Bash.

Of course, Bash had thought he wouldn't use his winning against Bash with Mary to get revenge in secret, scheming even while he pretended he only had Bash's best interests at heart, skewed version though he may have of them, and yet he had done that, too.

"She's a Pagan?" Francis asked incredulously, lifting one golden eyebrow at this news, his grip on Bash letting up just enough that the older boy was able to shove him off, and Francis fell back into the snow bonelessly, still looking shocked. "Father would never..."

He understood that. Henry was known throughout France for his harshness toward the Huguenots, and so it would follow that he hated the pagans living in France with a passion, as well. And yet, Bash had found that his father's unreasonable resentment of the Protestants had more to do with the English than with the religion itself.

"Father knows," Bash said, nodding and not daring to sit up, lest Francis come at him again. "She raised me like that, too, for a time. Of course I believed Nostradamus' prophecy, Francis. I wanted to save you just as much as Mary."

"And that prophecy just so happened to give you the chance to reach for the throne, too," Francis hissed accusingly, that violent fire in his eyes once more.

"I never wanted the throne!" Bash couldn't help the further irritation seeping into his voice.

"No. No, you just wanted Mary."

Bash let his eyes fall closed, wondering if Francis had always been this stubborn, this difficult to deal with.

Yes, Bash reflected, he had, but the two of them had never come to such odds before, and so he merely hadn't noticed until now.

They both sat in the snow, panting, waiting for the other to speak first, as Bash certainly didn't want to admit anything, and Francis wasn't about to go on without an answer for his latest accusation. The panting seemed to grow loud in the otherwise silent forest, filling Bash's ears uncomfortably as he winced, realizing Francis must have hit him in the ribs, considering how they now ached.

He wondered if one of them was broken.

"I didn't, at first," Bash said quietly, still not opening his eyes. "That came later."

When he received no response for some time, thinking that Francis would at least punch him for the words, he opened his eyes.

Just in time to see a dark, looming figure toss Francis to the ground, blood leaking out into his hair and onto his neck from a new wound to the back of his head. Francis crumpled, clearly unconscious, slumping forward face first into the snow, and Bash barely had the chance to unsheathe his sword before the dark creature (This is the Darkness, Bash thought, barely believing it,) rushed at him.

He brought his sword up in a last minute defense as the Darkness' sword smashed loudly against his, the gritting noise of metal against metal ringing through the forest.

And then Bash did not think of Francis for a while, though he was vaguely aware of where his brother was lying in the snow, not wanting to bring the fight over to him and risk injuring him further. He focused solely on his task, of fighting off this Darkness that the pagans of the woods were so terrified of, Man though it was, according to Nostradamus himself.

The fight went on too long, Bash tiring quickly from the effort, and, by the end, he was barely keeping up with the Darkness.

He almost wondered, even if he knew it to be false, if perhaps the Man was not a Man at all, to fight so long and so hard against him. He'd once been considered one of the greatest swordsmen in France, and he didn't think his little scuffle with a recovering Francis had tired him out this badly.

And then his sword nicked the Darkness' arm, and, dark cloths though the Man wore, Bash learned firsthand that the Darkness could bleed.

The other man let out a noise of anger, before rushing at Bash again, but this time, Bash was ready, filled with a determination to be rid of this beast, man or no, who had caused so much suffering amongst the common people of France for too long.

This was why he had returned to the castle, even thinking Francis had tried to have him killed. This was his purpose in remaining in France.

He would see it done.

He was not expecting the second weapon, a knife, stabbed into his side even as he crossed blades with the Darkness again, though he supposed he should have, from such a deceitful creature. It slammed through his leather jacket, embedding itself into the skin between two ribs, and Bash let out a shout of pain as blood began to leak from the wound, causing him to nearly black out from the pain of it.

From a far way off, he thought to wonder if this was how he would die, attempting to save a brother who had tried to kill, failing against a creature who had killed a girl he cared about. From afar way off, his mind registered that this wound to his side hurt much worse than a knife to the side should have, for he'd encountered such a thing once before.

He heard the Darkness grunt above him as his knees slammed into the snow, and Bash wondered if this was how he would die, kneeling before that wretched creature. Pain flared through his side, the same one with that aching rib from his earlier fight with Francis, and Bash let out a breath of air.

When several moments had passed and still that foul creature above him had not delivered the killing blow, Bash finally glanced up, confused and in pain, and some vague part of him screaming out in fear for Francis, unprotected against that creature.

Except, as he looked up and took in his surroundings, Bash found himself completely alone, surrounded only by the trees. He blinked, glancing toward the spot where he had seen Francis fall before.

Francis was gone, too, only a dark spot of blood on the snow giving any indication that he'd been there at all.

"Francis!"

Some part of him knew that he had to get up, that he had to go and find Francis now, this very instant, and that he could not allow the Darkness to get away from stealing away from him another person whom he cared about.

The other part succumbed completely to the darkness surrounding him.


	7. Francis IV

Francis woke up to find himself sitting on an uncomfortable pile of ashen cloth and bones in the darkness. Human bones. The ground was uncomfortably wet beneath him, and, when he pulled his hands up, he found that they were bound together in his lap. And that the same wetness lined the wall, too sticky and thick to be water.

Though he could hardly see for the darkness of the cave, or at least he assumed it was a cave, and that he had not yet died and gone to Hell, he could just make out the shadows of human bone beneath him, the feel of torn, faded cloth underneath his bound fingers. Human hair, bristling through his fingers.

He thought perhaps he had found the pagan girl that Bash was so concerned over. Well, what was left of her, anyway.

It was enough to make him sick, stomach roiling in disgust as he scrambled off of that particular pile, only to find that, in this long cave, it never seemed to end. And neither did the darkness, almost tangible about him, forcing him to feel his way forward along the walls.

Well, Francis thought with dark amusement, this was just perfect. If he did manage to escape this foul creature, it would only be to fall prey to the many caverns of this cave, never to find a way out.

And Bash would likely never find him, should he come looking.

Bash.

Bash, whom Francis had last seen while fighting over everything that had happened with Mary, and then his world had gone black and he had awoken here, to find that his brother was not with him.

His brother.

He did not know if Bash was even alive, much less looking for him. He could have easily left Francis to his fate, whatever that fate entailed.

The moment the thought entered Francis' mind, his face burned with shame. Bash had admitted that he was attracted to Mary, but that he had done as he had for Francis, and suddenly, at the prospect of truly never seeing him again, Francis couldn't believe the hurtful things he had said in reply.

And now he was here, stuck in a cave full of bones.

It was usually Bash who was able to think up ways out of these sorts of situations. Usually Bash who saved the day, while Francis allowed him to because that was his job, as the legitimate son, to stay alive.

Well, damned if he hadn't had enough of Bash's 'protection' lately.

He stood to his feet, ignoring the small part of him that demanded he not do so, lest he face the Darkness directly without ever knowing it, and stared toward the left hall of the cave. Though, without any light, he could hardly know which way the Darkness, this strange creature, had brought him in, he wasn't about to sit around a moment longer to find out.

Nor was he going to make Bash's job any more difficult, of finding him.

His resolve lasted only a few more steps before Francis came to the realization that he was most certainly not going to be able to walk over these bones without thinking of where they had come from. Of Olivia, who had come so close to being one of these victims herself, and of the girl Bash was so concerned for, whose name he didn't even know.

And his imagination had already begun to run wild with the possibilities.

Francis bent over, dry-heaving onto the cave floor just as he saw a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel.

He stood frozen, unsure whether to call out and alert whomever was there that he was awake, or burrow down into the rocks behind him and pretend he wasn't there at all.

Then he remembered that he was a prince, not a superstitious peasant, and walked forward, calling out, "Hello? Who's there?"

When there was no answer, he moved forward, legs still a little wobbly, though he wasn't entirely sure if this was from being hit over the head and falling unconscious, or from his previous injuries.

He crept forward almost silently, cursing inwardly every time his foot slammed against a rock, sending it skidding loudly in the darkness, moving toward that lone light with a desperation he knew he shouldn't be feeling, for surely it couldn't be Bash.

"Hello?" he called out again, and wondered if this Darkness, who claimed not to be a Man, even spoke French.

He got his answer a moment later.

There was a sound like a growl beside him, and Francis didn't think he was quick enough to withhold the sound of fright that left his lips before spinning to face it, bringing his hands up in front of his face protectively, even if, bound, they weren't of much use to him.

The tiny light before him, a candle, he realized idly, flickered in the darkness of the cave, and Francis got his first good look at the creature who had been terrorizing the peasants for so long.

He was not what Francis was expecting.

Bash and Nostradamus had reacted with some surprise that the Darkness was even human, which Francis supposed he might be able to expect from the latter, but not the former, unless there was some reason to believe that the Darkness was anything but.

He'd been expecting fangs and red eyes and hideous sores, to be honest, even if that was childish.

Instead, he was met with someone who looked very much like any other man, save for the mask covering his face, and the cloak hiding the rest of his body. A sack had been thrown over his shoulder, and he was glaring at Francis impatiently. The mask was truly terrifying, especially in the dim light, and yet Francis could see the other man's eyes beneath it, shining and brown, could see his lips, outlined by the horrendous fangs.

For a moment, he wondered how the Darkness had made the mask, but supposed continuing on that line of thought would only make him feel ill once more.

"Back," the Darkness ordered in a cold, commanding voice, one which any other fool might have quaked under. But Francis had spent a good portion of his life disobeying people who used the same tone, and stood firm.

"Why am I here?" he demanded, all the while searching around desperately with his eyes for some sort of weapon, either one on the Darkness which he could grab, or, better yet, one which the Darkness had not yet seen.

It was rather difficult, with so little light, to see either of those things.

The Darkness eyed him, taking a step forward, and Francis automatically took one back.

"Back," he repeated.

Francis ran.

He knew that it probably wasn't the smartest decision, especially given that he was running back further into the cave, rather than the way the Darkness had come, and that the likelihood of there being another exit, though probable, was also very slim, considering that none of the other prisoners of the Darkness had ever escaped.

He didn't get a chance to find this out for certain, though, before the Darkness, with inhuman swiftness, was upon him, throwing Francis to the ground and knocking the wind out of him.

He flailed, clawing at the dirt beneath his fingers, before the sickening thought reached him that, given that he couldn't see what he was lying atop, perhaps he should stop, so as not to disturb the dead.

The moment's hesitation was all that the Darkness needed, to yank him to his feet and slam him against the far cave wall, the movement causing Francis' ribs to crack ominously as they made impact with the stone, before he slid to the ground, boneless.

He turned around as quickly as he could, not wanting to expose his back to the Darkness a moment longer than necessary, and glaring.

He wanted to demand more answers. To know what the Darkness planned to do with the Dauphin of France, to know why he was so intent on terrifying the commoners.

Instead, he demanded, "What have you done with my brother?" and the words slipped out naturally. His brother, and for a moment Francis was so caught up in that thought that he almost didn't think to pay attention to the answer.

He needn't have bothered. The Darkness simply crossed his arms and stared at Francis with that awful silence.

"Are you going to sacrifice me, too? Like all of these other people?" Francis demanded, wondering why he felt so numb at the prospect. He wasn't sure if they even had been sacrificed to some pagan god, as the peasants seemed to believe, or if this man simply...

No, he definitely did not want to think about that.

The Darkness only continued to stare down at him through his hood, and Francis got the feeling that he was being weighed and found wanting, in that moment. After a moment, the Darkness stepped forward and hooked his bound hands to a nail in the wall which Francis hadn't noticed a moment ago, making him grimace. He could have easily landed his head against it a moment before, when the Darkness slammed him against the wall.

Evidently, the creature wasn't too concerned about killing him, which told Francis that he needed to be careful.

"Eat," the other man said finally, throwing something out of the sack across his shoulders toward Francis, and he barely managed to catch it with his bound hands, not entirely sure that it would be wise to do so.

A slice of meat, finely cooked, the juice staining his shaking fingers. Francis wondered if the Darkness had gone out and caught the meat himself, had cooked it over a fire, or if it was just one of the spoils from the poor fools who feared him so.

And, with that thought, came the far less appetizing one, of what sort of meat this was, exactly. Francis set it aside, on a nearby rock, just in case he became that desperate later.

Somehow, he didn't think that he would.

The Darkness, seemingly satisfied that Francis wasn't going to attempt to escape again, turned and began walking away, without another word.

"Who are you?" Francis demanded at his back, not knowing why he insisted on pushing his luck. His mother would call it foolish. Bash would call it arrogance. "You're a man- I had proof of that before I came on this quest to find you."

The Darkness- the man- paused, back still turned to him, and the Dauphin had the sudden urge to reach forward and wrench off the mask he wore, to see what truly lay beneath. If he was some deformed creature, hidden beneath that hood, or if he truly was a demon from Hell.

He moved forward, even if he could only move a few steps, given his new restraints, uncertain if madness had claimed him in that moment, and then, before he could lift his hand, the Darkness grabbed hold of Francis' wrist, his punishing grip causing the Dauphin to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out.

"I am the Darkness," the creature said calmly, as if this explained everything, and finally let go of Francis' hand, letting it drop back down in front of him.

Francis was tempted to rub the blood back into it, but refrained.

"That's not your name," he snapped at the creature, unsure why this was so important to him now, when his very life was at stake.

The man beneath the cloak let out a long, tired sigh. "I am but a hint of the Darkness in this world, I am what reminds those smart enough to know to return to the Old Ways, lest they be lost in the coming Darkness forever."

Francis might have laughed if his own situation were not so dire. Instead, he settled for bemusement, squinting up at this deranged man and wondering what his punishment would be, for not turning to paganism.

"The coming darkness?" he finally asked.

The Darkness stared down at him for a long time, and Francis was hard pressed not to squirm under the attention, before the man abruptly turned away from him.

And the creature did not return, no matter how loudly Francis shouted after him.

He thought perhaps he slept, dozing on and off in the next few hours, his worry for what had happened to Bash clouding most of his dreams, if they were indeed dreams, and his worry of what Mary was now doing, back at the palace, invading the rest.

The Darkness returned when the last of the light from the lantern was beginning to fade, and Francis startled at the sight of him, inching back against his wall and wondering if he would die tonight.

But the Darkness did not seem interested in him as much as in the bundle he carried in his arms. For a moment, Francis thought that it was a deer, taken from a hunt or from his sacrifices, but, as it moved closer into the dying light, Francis realized that it was the form of a human.

His heart caught in his throat, and, for an irrational moment, he feared that this body belonged to Mary, that somehow, the Darkness had come for her, even in the safety of the palace, and that she had been brought here as a sacrifice to torment him.

And then he saw the peasant clothes, and worried that the Darkness had indeed been keeping Bash prisoner all of this time, only to reunite them now, though Francis could not think for what purpose.

Then the Darkness abruptly dropped her.

The woman let out a sharp, pained cry, falling forward on her hands and knees, and Francis would have helped her to stand if he wasn't tied down. As it was, he could only watch helplessly as she lifted her hands to shield her face, and the Darkness grabbed her by the arms, heedless of her feeble attempts to repel him, yanking her to her feet. He tied her hands roughly with the same coil of rope he had used on Francis, and then let her fall once more.

"Please, we didn't know! My husband and I have always served the Old Ways faithfully," the woman whimpered, and Francis stiffened as he realized that he recognized that voice.

"Myria?" he gasped out, and the woman lifted her head, turning her shaky gaze toward him. Something behind her eyes shifted at the sight of him, as if she had realized that her game, whatever that was, was over, and she fell boneless to the ground, no doubt passed out from the shock.


	8. BASH IV

His first thought, before he even opened his eyes, was that he had killed his brother, the Dauphin of France, by insisting on returning to the castle when he did, by letting Francis come with him to search for the Darkness.

For some reason, this knowledge was far worse than the knowledge that Francis' soldiers had died on this foolish quest, as well.

It hadn't seemed so foolish a quest when they started out. He was doing this for Roan, to avenge a woman he cared about, who had been taken by this Darkness. Francis coming along had not even been his idea; Francis had insisted.

But now he understood, all too well.

He hadn't loved this girl, not as he had tricked himself into thinking in the last few days. Not as he had loved Mary, for, in truth, she was a lovely distraction from the pain that came with knowing Mary was Francis' wife, not his. When Roan was taken, it was as if all of that heartache had come rushing back at once, and he knew he had to find her again if she still lived, and avenge her if she did not, for his sake as much as her own.

And now Francis had been taken, too.

He opened bleary eyes, body stiff from sleeping in an uncomfortable position all night, and it was only then that he thought to wonder why he was not wet from sleeping in the snow.

He didn't have long to think on this.

The moment his eyes adjusted to the harsh light of the cabin, he recognized his surroundings immediately. As well as the man and woman standing before him, arms crossed as they glared down at him in something between fear and disgust.

Raoul was the first to speak, and Bash noticed the way his hand snaked down to his belt, where the hilt of a knife poked out, glinting sharply in Bash's vision.

"He left you behind," Raoul said then, his voice icy, and yet, at the same time, baffled. "He let you go, and he took the blond one. And then he dumped you on our doorstep. Why? Why would he do that?"

Bash swallowed, wondering the same thing for himself. He knew that Francis had been the much easier target - he was injured, nearly unconscious, and definitely wouldn't be able to fight back. And yet...if he'd wanted to, the Darkness could have stayed and finished what he'd started. Bash wouldn't have been able to save both himself and Francis, wouldn't have been able to keep fighting forever.

The Darkness had spared him and stolen his brother, and that was far more disturbing than the thought that Francis was simply easy prey.

And now, Francis was holed up somewhere, some unknown place that Bash had been unable to find before, and was even less likely to find now.

The same place where Roan had been taken, and she had never returned.

"I...I don't know," he whispered, and hated that it was true.

The couple digested that for a moment, exchanging furtive glances.

"Who are you?" Raoul demanded, rearing on Bash. "You and your brother, why does He want you?"

Bash stayed silent.

"Damn this," Raoul muttered. "We should just kill 'im now, before the Darkness returns." He looked disturbingly eager to do just that. "That damn foot outside our door is proof enough that he's...wrong."

"They said they're from the palace," Myria erupted then, not meeting Bash's eyes. He saw the hand-shaped print on her cheek then, and wondered at it.

Her husband exploded, as Bash had suspected he would, fingering the pendant around his neck and paling considerably. "From the palace? Catholics then! Damnable woman, why didn't ye say somethin' sooner?"

She blanched, flinching as if expecting a blow. "I thought...I didn't think that-"

"You didn't think!" the man snapped. "Why do you think He's come, then? He'll punish us for helping these two, and not giving them up as we ought to have!"

"Listen to me," Bash tried, lifting his hands placatingly toward the young couple. "He isn't what you think. He's not-"

"That's enough out of you, Christian," the hunter snapped. "We don't want no trouble with the palace, but we'd rather avoid trouble with Him, too."

"You want no trouble with the palace?" Bash snapped, fully aware that this was a foolish thing to do, but not thinking clearly in that moment. Francis had been taken. He _needed_ to find Francis before the Darkness. "That's what you'll get, if you don't let me go at once." A deep breath. After this, there would be no turning back, he knew. They would either let him go or hand him over to the Darkness immediately. Or kill him out of fear. "I am the son of the King, and the other one, the one the Darkness took, is my half-brother, the Dauphin of France. If you don't let us go at once, you will have brought the rage of the King upon you, and this whole woods."

Raoul stared at him for a few minutes, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish, before he finally murmured hoarsely, "That's impossible. What the hell were you two doing out in the Woods then?"

Bash didn't think the answer to that would be very helpful to his situation, and so he stayed silent.

Raoul's eyes narrowed at the silence. "The...Dauphin has been taken?" he asked finally, and, at Bash's miserable nod, "Gods help us all."

Bash's thoughts exactly.

Myria was the first to break the silence then, glancing awkwardly between the two of them before moving forward and handing Bash a wet cloth, warm to the touch, with none of the care and concern she had given to Francis, when he lay ill.

Bash imagined that this was because she finally knew their identities; knew that they were not one of her own.

"What do we do now?" Raoul moaned. "If...If he discovers that we were _helping_ them..."

There was a noise outside of the cabin that made them all jump, a low voice chanting in the distance, louder and louder with each passing breath. The sound of a wolf's howl.

"I think he already has," Bash said, voice soft.

* * *

They did not have long to prepare after that, and Bash had a feeling that he and Myria were the only ones truly trying; Raoul, he could see, from the man's slouched shoulders and terrified expression, was not so eager to make any sort of stand against the Darkness, even now.

"We need to cover the windows, cover all of the entrances," he snapped at Myria, who nodded and hurried to grab the blankets off their bed. Raoul followed, a knife in hand, though his hands were ringing from his obvious nervousness.

"Do you have any other weapons?" Bash asked Raoul, when the windows had been covered.

Raoul and Myria exchanged glances. "Just this," Raoul said softly, pointing to the knife. "And me bow."

Bash sighed. "We'll have to make do-"

"If we throw you out there, he'll let us go," Raoul said then, a hint of desperation in his voice as he gave Bash an assessing look. "He will. He always does."

Bash shook his head. "Are you sure about that? If you aren't, he'll just kill you, and keep on killing." He fixed Myria with a look. "Why did you leave the village to come live here, Myria? Don't you want an end to this, once and for all? He's a man; I know that. Which means he can die just like any other man."

Raoul gulped, glancing at Myria. Her eyes were wide as she looked between the two of them, and Bash opened his mouth to speak, knew that he could probably convince her with a few more words, if not Raoul.

He didn't get the chance to answer, however. In the next moment, there was a loud crash, and Myria let out a cry of terror, running behind Bash for protection as Bash turned toward the door.

He felt a wicked sense of Deja vu as the pounding continued, as Myria's hand around the hunting knife tightened to what must have been an almost painful grip, and Raoul awkwardly slung an arrow, looking as though he'd much rather not use it.

It seemed to Bash, in the next moment, as though the world had gone dark and cold, and he could barely see his own hand in front of his eyes as the door came down with a wicked thud.

Myria shouted, and then dove behind her husband, in lieu of Bash, as he took a step forward that he could only term as suicidal.

But he knew what he had to do. This man had taken a woman he had come to care for, had taken _Francis_...And he had to get Francis back. And he had to make sure this creature didn't take anyone else.

Raoul's hand was shaking as the arrow flew; Bash had to convince himself that this was the reason the Darkness was still standing, as he moved further into their house, as the chants and cries of the chanters outside grew louder. Bash couldn't help but wonder where they had come from.

And then the Darkness attacked.

He was expecting the man beneath that robe to come for him, of course, or what happened next would never have been possible.

Instead, the Darkness rushed at Myria. She let out a guttural scream as an abnormally large hand closed around her throat, throwing her behind him and into the wall of the cottage. Her scream abruptly vanished into silence as a trickle of blood ran down her forehead, reminding Bash eerily of Francis.

Bash glanced at Raoul, saw that the man was only standing there now, the bow and arrow having fallen from his hands and to the floor, and let out a sigh, attacking the Darkness while he still seemed preoccupied with Myria.

"Where's my brother?" he demanded, raising his sword as the Darkness attacked him again, this time with the knife that had been in Myria's hand. It was not a perfect substitute for a sword, of course, but it was long enough to do some damage, and he somehow managed to hold his own against Bash as they moved toward the door.

The Darkness let out a guttural laugh, but Bash pressed his advantage in the close quarters, and, a moment later, heard a satisfying cry of pain from the creature in front of him. He couldn't withhold a small, victorious smile, knowing that he had reopened the wound where he had nicked the Darkness before; only it was greater now. And then the knife was gone, and he was out the door, Myria thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She let out a grunt of pain, but didn't awaken from her unconsciousness, and Bash swore.

Bash rushed him again, but the Darkness turned again at the last moment, slamming a broken piece of the wooden door against Bash's gut, and knocking the wind out of him, as well as the sword from his hands. It clattered loudly against the ground.

Not again, not just like with Francis. He couldn't...

The world seemed to spin, and then he was on his knees, gasping for breath. When he finally had it, he looked up, but, just as a small part of him had suspected, the Darkness was already gone.

Beside him, Raoul had fallen to his knees, tears streaking down his face even as he stared with wide eyes after the creature that had taken his wife. "Myria..." he whispered brokenly, but made no move to get up.

"She's gone," Bash breathed, surprised despite himself.

Raoul glared at Bash. "I'll kill you for this. You brought this on us all."

Bash shook his head. "I didn't. The Darkness isn't a thing, he's just a man, and, if he's man, he can be-"

But Raoul didn't listen, instead attacking him with a furious yell of rage. They were both on the ground in the next moment, Bash gasping as the other man's hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed, even as he attempted to knee the other man and thus gain some footing.

And, as the world around him started to grow dark, he gasped out, "She was still alive, when he took her."

The grip loosened, though only for a moment. "She won't be for long. He won't..." Raoul's voice was choked, but disturbingly confident. "You've killed her, with your idea of fighting back."

Bash shook his head. "If you...there's still a chance...to save..."

And then the grip was gone completely, and Bash gulped in a painful breath of air.

"You may have been able to convince my Myria that this folly was somehow a good idea," Raoul growled at him, "but you won't convince me. Go after the Darkness yourself if you like, just leave me."

And Bash's eyes wandered to the doorstep as he listened to the broken man's words, and widened at what he saw there.

"Very well," he said softly. "That's all I need."

And Raoul followed his gaze, to the trail of blood leading outside of the house. Deep enough of a wound to track back to wherever he was going, Bash suspected. And, if he needed Myria for some sort of sacrifice, he wouldn't waste time, and possibly her life, by stopping to bind it until he got there.


	9. FRANCIS V

When Myria awoke, it was with a startled gasp.

Francis noticed that the Darkness had not bothered with tying her down, as he hadn't the first time that Francis had awoken, though he did not seem concerned overmuch with their ability to escape. He was once again gone, either to some distant end of the cave or out of it, Francis didn't know.

She reacted to the bones far worse than Francis had, warding them off and scrambling to her feet with a tiny intake of breath, eyes wide and bloodshot as they finally took in Francis in the darkness.

He spoke before she had the chance to do so. "Myria, you have to get out of here."

She took a slight step back, shaking her head feverishly.

Still, he persisted. "You have to try and find a way to escape, or neither of us ever will."

And still, she continued to shake her head. "No," she insisted, "No, we already attempted to defy the Darkness. We canno' do it again. No, no, it will be worse for us now because we already attempted to defy him."

Francis swallowed hard, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, even if a secret part of him feared that she was right. "Myria, my brother Bash-"

Her head shaking grew slightly more insistent, and spread throughout the rest of her body quickly enough.

"Your Highness-"

Francis closed his eyes.

Behind Myria, having appeared out of the dark corridor like a wraith in the night, the Darkness paused, and then slowly turned, his hooded head going up and down as he took in Francis once more. He was carrying a torch, which cast a horrifying light on him, on him Myria, on the ground before her.

She gulped loudly.

Well, that answered one question for him. Bash was indeed alive, for he did not think that the humble Myria and her husband had known of his and Bash's true identities while they had stayed at the cabin, and she did now.

Bash was alive.

He felt an insane moment of relief, but it was quickly tempered, as the Darkness stepped forward and grabbed Myria by the hair, yanking her to her feet and holding her aloft.

"'Your Highness'?" he repeated, and Myria let out a little sob.

"Let her go," Francis snapped then, struggling against his bonds in a vain effort to stand.

The Darkness ignored him, his eyes only for Myria, then. And Myria, for her part, nodded frantically.

Francis swallowed. It seemed that fear of the King's wrath was, irationally or rationally, he hadn't quite decided yet, not equal to that of the Darkness and everything that he was capable of.

"You are the Dauphin of France," the Darkness said then, turning his eyes on Francis.

Francis sighed. "Let me and the woman go, and I can promise you that the King will-"

The Darkness interrupted him with a long, low laugh, giving poor Myria another shake. "Promises from a Catholic. Just as worthless as promises from a King. They've done nothing for you, have they?" And then he turned, and, with a suddenness that made Francis feel ill, bodily threw Myria toward the fire.

Francis lurched against his bonds, managed to get to his knees as Myria fell face first into the flames, screaming as her skin connected with the open fire and flailing, but the Darkness stood between them, knife already brandished, and he was far faster than Francis.

He moved, first shoving Francis back against the wall of the cave that he was tied to, so hard that Francis heard the sickening crunch of the bones in his shoulders and felt blood leaking out of his nose, before pushing Myria further into the flames as her screams echoed off of the walls of the cave, as the flames surrounding her only seemed to grow.

Francis lifted his fist to his mouth, unable to even register the pain that he knew would come, and bit down hard enough to draw blood as he could only watch in horror. He was frozen with it, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Myria did not.

She lasted far too long, and by the end of it, Francis had rubbed his wrists and ankles raw, had screamed himself hoarse alongside her, but it had done no use.

The smell filled the cave as the embers of the fire the Darkness had made died, and Francis gagged, dry-heaving onto the floor of the cave and gasping.

The Darkness began to sweep away the ashes with an ease that was almost as disturbing as what Francis had just seen.

He understood now, finally, why this man could take on such a title, amongst the people of the woods, and become more than just a sadistic man terrorizing the people.

Francis had never seen such darkness, not in Tomas, not in assassins, not in his father's eyes when he'd decided to kill Francis' mother for the sake of his chance to take England for himself.

"She...she didn't do anything," he rasped out, when he finally could trust himself to speak once more. "She was one of you. You didn't have to, you couldn't-"

"Be quiet," the Darkness snapped. "She betrayed the Old Ways when she harbored you, when she and her husband fought alongside your Catholic friend against the Darkness. The gods are now appeased."

Francis gagged again. The words made a sickening sort of sense, he supposed, in the man's mind. The peasants, he knew, did not fight against the Darkness, believing him to be the portents of their religion. And worse had been done in the name of religion.

He had known that the Darkness took sacrifices, of his own people even, in the name of the Old Ways, but this...

He glanced at the place where Myria's charred bones lay, thought of the dozens more bones he was even now sitting on, and wondered that anyone found that worth it.

"Are you going to kill me too, then?" Francis asked then, too calmly for his racing heart, and had not the presence of mind to wonder why he felt so much calmer about that prospect than staying alive as this creature's - for surely this was not a man, not this foul beast - prisoner, as Olivia had been.

"I have no intention of killing you," the Darkness informed him then, and somehow, the words did not bring Francis relief.

"What intention do you have toward me, then?" he demanded.

The Darkness was silent then, and Francis felt his nerves fray. "Answer me!"

"I have no intention of killing you," the Darkness repeated, and turned away. "Just now."

Francis blinked. "Wh...Why not?" he asked, and hated himself for the way that his voice wavered, in that moment.

"You and your line, these kings who believe that they can...civilize France, turn us from the Old Ways to your accursed Christianity..." The Darkness sucked in a breath, blowing it out slowly. "There is a price to pay, for leading an entire people to turn their backs on the Old Ways."

Francis raised a brow. "And what price is that?"

The Darkness turned then, and, for the first time, looked directly into Francis' eyes. Francis shivered. "You ask, but you do not care to know. You do not believe in the Old Ways, just as your father the King has taught you not to." He shook his head beneath the hood. "You cannot know the price."

Francis was not sure that he wanted to know, but he asked anyway. "Then tell me."

The Darkness seemed almost hesitant for a moment, and then shook his head. "No. You and yours do not understand anything save the sword." And then he reached beneath the folds of his robes, pulling out a long, jagged knife.

Francis swallowed audibly when he saw the dried blood on it.

"You will make your King understand, little princeling," the Darkness said. "That is why you must live."

The creature, the man, Francis' logical mind supplied, even if he wasn't sure he believed it anymore, leaned forward, the jagged, bloody knife raised inches above Francis' fingers. He closed his eyes, and, in that moment, a very strange thought came to mind.

He wasn't sure if it was the shock, if he had become completely detached to the situation, but he realized in that moment that, if something happened and he was no longer in line to be king, as had been so close to happening not so very long ago, he would be no use as a blacksmith with only one hand.

And then the knife dropped.


	10. BASH V

"Drop that knife, or I swear by all of the Old Gods, I will cut you down where you stand."

The knife in the Darkness' hand faltered, but Bash did not dare allow himself to breathe, for it was still far too close to Francis' hand.

He had entered the cave some time ago, had just found the cavern where the Darkness was keeping Francis in time to see the knife hanging above Francis' fingers, to see his brother nearly lose his hand, had Bash been a second slower. He shuddered at the thought, stepping into the cavern with sword drawn.

Francis barely looked like he was aware of what was going on around him, but his eyes briefly met Bash's, before he sighed in relief, body slumping back against the wall and eyes drooping in exhaustion and pain.

The Darkness' grip on Francis' hand slackened as the Dauphin fell, and then he turned on Bash, eyes glinting.

"I do not fear death, but what is coming," the Darkness intoned, and Bash gritted his teeth, the stench in the room suddenly hitting him. He saw the bones lying on the ground, the matted hair and charred flesh before the fire, the talismans hanging from the walls, and shuddered, for even one who claimed to follow the Old Ways should not dabble in such things.

"If you kill him, the only thing coming for you will be the King's army," Bash snapped, readjusting his grip on his sword and attempting to sound confident despite the tremor he could hear in his own voice.

The Darkness did not seem bothered by his words. "I have no intention of killing him, merely sending a message to his father the King."

"By chopping off his hand?" Bash asked incredulously, stepping closer.

The Darkness took a step back, nearly pressed against the far wall, now, standing still far too close to Francis for Bash's comfort. "By letting the King know that he must return to the Old Ways along with the rest of us, before he damns us all."

Bash took another step closer, the Darkness another back. "I know King Henry, and I know that threats do not sway him; he has far too much pride for that. The Old Ways have been banished in France, to make way for the new; maiming the King's son will not change his mind on that account."

"You're one of us," the Darkness hissed, and he sounded almost desperate as he said the words, almost as if he were pleading with Bash, which was the first sign of fear that Bash had seen of him. Strangely, he did not think that the man was pleading for his life. "You know the Old Ways."

Bash shoved him back, not wanting to hear whatever doom and gloom this monster might predict now.

"You know that you cannot flippantly toss aside my words!" the Darkness shouted more loudly, more insistent. "Not when you believe, just as I do. Kill me, and you will have damned us all to the coming darkness. France needs me to live, needs the people to return to their Old Ways, or it will come, make no mistake."

Bash shook his head stubbornly. "Needs you to terrorize the people? To kill innocents?"

He eyed Bash's sword. "Be careful, Bastard, for with my death will come the Black Death once again. Sacrifices must be made to appease the Old Gods, or we will all be lost."

"Yes," Bash drawled, pulling back the sword in preparation. He had killed many men before this, did not doubt that he would continue to do so in the service of France, but he had never quite delivered this blow before, and his hand shook despite his efforts to keep it from doing so. "I suppose they must."

The strike was clean and quick, which was more than Bash felt his monster deserved after the way he had terrorized the common people for so long, but he didn't have time for anything else and, inwardly, didn't think he would have been capable of anything else.

The Darkness' words came back to him then, the threat of the great plagues that had once terrorized the lands as the Darkness had making Bash shudder, for he knew that surely they could not be true, but the very thought of them returning to France struck the terror in him that he had no doubt had been the Darkness' intent.

Still, if they had not, if the words had been true...

Across the cave, Francis let out a groan of pain, and Bash swore, running over to his side by nimbly walking around the remains by the fire and grimacing at the smell, and kneeling beside him, face twisting into a different kind of worry.

The Darkness had not succeeded in damaging Francis' hand before Bash had arrived but he could see that Francis was still suffering from the injuries he'd incurred before the Darkness had dragged him away, and from several new ones, judging by his struggle for air.

"Francis?" he hissed, not entirely sure why he was whispering. "Francis, can you hear me?"

Francis groaned, eyes fluttering. "Bash?"

"I'm here," Bash whispered, gripping him by the shoulder in an attempt to pull him upright. Francis let out a scream of pain and Bash lowered him back down again, flinching. "Are you hurt?"

Francis shot him a look that was less than impressed, and then looked past him, to the remains of the fire. "Maria..."

Bash did not follow his gaze. "Francis, can you walk?"

"I..." Francis struggled to sit up, and winced as his body fell against the ropes still binding him. Bash moved, quickly cutting him free despite the blood still on the blade. Francis grimaced at the sight of it, glanced over at the Darkness.

"We were supposed to arrest him, bring him back to the King for a trial," Francis protested.

Bash raised a brow. "One day, you will be King, Francis. These people, your subjects, they do not live by the laws of the King, but by the laws of the woods. Come on, we'll get you home."

Francis sighed, pushing to his feet and wincing in pain as his injuries protested the action. Bash reached out to help him, but Francis stubbornly waved him off, and, after a moment's hesitation, Bash left off, guiding him through the cave and toward the darkening sunlight of the forest once more.

Or would have done, if Francis had not collapsed not four paces beyond Maria's remains with a sharp cry.

"Francis!" Bash shouted, rushing to his side once more, just in time to see Francis' eyes roll back into his head and hear his stuttered breathing even out into unconsciousness. For a moment, Bash was unsure as to why he had lost consciousness, beyond the blood loss, until he saw that, when he'd fallen, Francis had hit his head on a sharp rock of the cave.

"Dammit, Francis," Bash muttered, reaching forward and pulling the shirt off of Francis' shoulder, grimacing at the sight of so much blood, and the clearly broken ribs.

If Bash could not get him to safety soon, which was becoming a real possibility, he would not last the night.

"Stay with me, Francis," he whispered, even if Francis could not hear him and did not have a hope of doing so. "Stay with me, please."

He dragged Francis the rest of the way out of the cave, Francis' arm draped over a shoulder, until he was squinting into the evening light of the forest, which seemed far brighter due to the darkness of the cave.

He did not have a horse now, only a bloodied sword and Francis, barely alive beside him.

He walked anyway, because he did not know what else to do. There would be no other villagers wiling their lives away in this neck of the woods, and Francis was his priority, even if it killed him, he would get his brother to safety.

He stumbled along, Francis a deadweight at his side, muttering under his breath reassuring words that he did not believe, and that he knew Francis would not have believed, had he been awake to hear them, until he reached the edge of the forest.

By then, night had fallen already, and Bash sighed, for it would be suicide to attempt to continue the journey back to the castle in the dark.

And then he heard the scouts.

With the last of his strength, he ran, wincing as Francis was dragged through the snow behind him but unable to do anything else with him, until he came up short before the shouting group of men wearing the King's colors, dragging along behind dogs nearly foaming at the mouth in their excitement at having found their prey, and all of them upon horses.

"Your Highness!" the nearest scout shouted, and Bash nearly wilted with relief. "Your Highness, my lord," he called, suddenly noticing Bash's presence. The scout pulled up short, evidently not sure what to do with the realization that Bash was indeed carrying Francis in the direction of the palace, rather than attempting to hide his body. "The King and Queen sent us out to discover what had happened to the two of you after the Queen of Scots informed them of your location. We've been searching for days, now."

As they had no doubt believed Bash would be doing, after luring Francis out into the forest for too long for Mary to cover them.

"He needs to be returned to the palace to see a physician," Bash informed them. "Quickly."

They hesitated, several of them glancing at each other, before nodding in unison.

"Of course, my lord. Randolph, get the Dauphin a horse. I will ride with him."

And then strong arms were pulling Francis out of Bash's grip, and he resisted for a moment, before remembering that of course these men could be trusted, that they were the King's men and loyal to Francis, unlike the people in the woods.

They got Francis situated comfortably on a horse, and Bash moved forward to help with him.

He was met with the flat end of a blade to his chest.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bash demanded.

The scout at least looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, my lord. But I have my orders. You are under arrest in the name of the King. Please, don't make this harder than it has to be."

Bash checked once more that Francis was safe, and then sighed. "Do what you must."


	11. FRANCIS VI

He woke up to the sound of his mother's voice, angrily scolding someone, and Francis smiled before he even opened his eyes or made sense of the words, for surely this meant that he was home, and that everything was back to normal.

And then he heard Mary's voice, quietly contradicting, and sighed.

Yes, everything certainly was back to normal. His mother and his wife were at it again.

At the sound, both women abruptly stopped in their argument, turning to him, and Francis forced open crusty eyelids to give them a weary smile.

Mary jumped to her feet from the chair nearest the door, rushing over and throwing herself on top of him before Francis had the energy to breathe, much less follow her movements.

"Oh Francis," she whispered hoarsely, and it occurred to him then that he was lying in Nostradamus' infirmary, where Olivia had taken up residence most recently, and he wondered if that was as uncomfortable for Mary as it was for him to wake up dressed only in his small clothes and one of these itchy furs draped over him.

"Good, you're awake," his mother said then, moving to stand behind Mary when she finally pulled away and clapping her hands together in what Francis knew to be a decisive manner. Francis regretted the absence of his wife's touch immediately, but her smile was enough, in that moment, to force him to concentrate on his mother's words. It was a beautiful smile. He could melt in it happily at the moment. "French Court has gone to hell in the last day, the King is obsessed with that whore, the little Bean Queen, but it's all right because Bash didn't manage to kill you on that little excursion." Her voice raised in octave as she moved closer. "What the hell were you thinking, going off like that?"

He could tell she was secretly pleased to see him alive and well, as well as Mary, and couldn't withhold a grin.

"I don't suppose I was," he said flippantly, which garnered another glare from Catherine, but the hint of a smile again from Mary, so he supposed that it must have been worth it.

"How are you feeling?" Catherine demanded then, and, though the gruff manner was not gone from her bedside approach, he could see the genuine concern in her eyes, in her touch as she laid a hand against his forehead as though he were a much younger child.

And, true to form, he pulled away. "Fine."

She gave him a long look then, one of those looks she had that he could never quite identify, and then softened, wiping her hands on her dress. "You've been asleep for three days now. Nostradamus was afraid you would not wake."

Francis bit his lip. "I'll be all right, Mother," he assured her.

She gave him another long look, and it was then that her words sunk in. "Three days?"

She raised a brow. "Indeed. Enough time for word to spread. We let it be known that you were sick with a cold, lest the King's counselors demand he send for Charles."

Francis sighed. "Yet another reason for the people to believe their Dauphin a sickly little boy."

She swatted at him. "If you don't like the image the people have of you, change it and don't go running off doing stupid things, my dear."

Stupid things. A knife hanging above his head. Bash saving him, fighting the Darkness-

"Bash-"

"Was just let out of the dungeons," Catherine informed him, her voice brisk. "The King is apparently...too caught up in...his little whore, to be much worried about what his sons are doing, at the present moment. And, he claims, he knows how to stop Bash's 'reckless behavior' once and for all."

Francis gulped at that, feeling suddenly nervous. "What does that mean?"

Catherine rolled her eyes. "How should I know?" And then she sighed. "I'm sure he'll be fine, Francis, with you to come up with an explanation for his presence here, now that you're awake."

"I will speak for him as well," Mary said then.

Francis nodded. And then he asked the question that he knew he should hold his tongue about, the question he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to. "Did you...did you send the guards after him to kill him, Mother?"

Mary gasped at the words, eyes shooting from Francis to Catherine, but she seemed genuinely surprised by the accusation. "I did no such thing," she said, voice a tad cooler than before, but Francis could not bring himself to feel guilty for asking, not after what Mary had told him she had done. Her expression softened. "He was leaving, Francis. I know when to pick my battles."

And, damn him, he believed her, even if he could not think of another person who would want Bash dead, not with the capability to send guards after him.

As if speaking of him had summoned him, Francis glanced up a moment later to find Bash standing in the doorway, rubbing at reddened wrists and glaring at a guard standing behind him, one hand on the hilt of his sword in warning.

"Bash," Mary cried, moving as if to run over to him before seeming to remember the strain between them now, coming to an abrupt halt and staring down at her hands.

Bash swallowed. "Mary," he said, his voice level in the way that Francis recognized as barely managing to keep from a tremor.

Catherine glided forward, until she was standing directly in front of Bash. "They've let you out of the dungeons, I see," she said coldly, looking him up and down.

Bash's lips pulled downward. "Not without a guard, though."

Catherine studied him for one more long moment, before moving forward and wrapping her arms around him, dragging him into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder, Bash glanced at Francis helplessly; Francis could not remember a time when Catherine had ever willingly touched her husband's bastard son.

"Thank you for bringing my son home safely," she whispered, loudly enough for Francis to hear from the bed, though he pretended that he had not as he watched Bash's face color.

And then Catherine pulled back, her expression one of cold detachment once more as she swept past him and into the hall as though nothing untoward had just occurred.

Bash and Francis exchanged bemused glances, and then Mary was saying, "I...I'll leave the two of you alone then. Unless..." she glanced at Francis. "Unless you would prefer that I stayed?"

Francis shook his head, and, after a moment, she took walked out, dragging the guard along with her as she whispered something into his ear and shut the door behind them both.

It sounded like a death gong, and Francis shifted uncomfortably in the narrow bed he was laying in.

"How are you feeling?" Bash asked, when they were alone.

Francis resisted the urge to snort at the words, wondering how many times he'd heard them today.

"I feel lucky to be alive." He paused, licked his lips almost nervously. "We're both lucky to be a live."

Bash glanced up at him then, meeting his eyes for the first time since their return to the castle.

Francis cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the number of emotions he felt in that moment, bubbling just under the surface and threatening to come forward. "I would have died under that ice. Or in that cave. You saved my life, twice. Was that wise? Since you still believe I tried to kill you?"

Bash didn't answer for a long time, simply stared down at the blanket covering Francis as if it were something else entirely, and Francis wondered uncomfortably how much of the bones and dust he had seen during his time in the Darkness' cave.

"I did believe that, didn't I?" Bash asked then, but he sounded very far away, and Francis sighed, for that was no answer at all.

Francis was growing rather tired of his silence and few word answers. "Then why risk your life for mine?" He was genuinely curious. He wanted to hear what Bash's answer was. Wanted to remember it.

Bash simply smiled at him, a sad smile that seemed to convey so much and so little at once. "You're my brother."


End file.
